Edinburgh’s Best Negronis: A Secret Drinking Guide

Edinburgh doesn’t perform. It broods. The rain hits stone, the lights stay low, and the city keeps its secrets. You drink differently here, slower, quieter, more aware of the hour. The Negroni fits the place: bitter, beautiful, and built to last. This isn’t a hunt for the trendiest pour or the most Instagrammed glass. It’s a map for those who travel by instinct, who trust the pull of a good bar stool and the sound of proper ice on crystal. Think of it less as a list, more as a late-night walk through one of the world’s great drinking cities.

Hey Palu

Step off Bread Street and the rain gives way to candlelight and the soft rasp of vinyl. Hey Palu feels like Fellini’s Rome somehow landed in Edinburgh and decided to stay for the weather. Leather booths glow under the neon flicker of a martini glass, the bar back a shrine to Amari, seventy-five bottles deep, all the Italian vowels you can dream of. Alex and Rachel Palumbo, English-Italian duo and masters of mood, run the bar like a family trattoria disguised as a film set.

The Negroni here is batched and cold enough to make your teeth hum. There’s a coconut americano if you’re feeling adventurous, but the house Negroni, the “Palu Red”, is the showstopper: gin, Campari, and vermouth in perfect tension, served in a glass so clean it could double as a mirror. They don’t perform at Hey Palu; they commune. Every pour is a conversation, every sip a passport stamp. Somewhere in the background, Mina’s Tintarella di Luna plays, and you half expect Marcello Mastroianni to lean in and light your cigarette.

Never Really Here

The name’s a warning and a promise. The Speakeasy’s door is unmarked; the street is quiet. You knock, wait, and maybe, if the gods of good taste smile, you’re allowed in. Inside, Never Really Here feels like a dream you don’t want to end: seven tables, a soft jazz undercurrent, and no menu in sight. The bartender asks what you like, smoky? floral? bitter?, and builds something from your confession. It’s less a transaction than a séance.

The Negroni, should you request it, won’t be textbook. It’ll be bespoke, balanced, maybe with a lick of mezcal or a whisper of Scottish heather honey, depending on how you describe your day. It’s the kind of bar that doesn’t shout about itself because it doesn’t have to. Once you’ve found it, you’ll feel as if you should tell no one, but you’ll dream about it every time the rain hits cobblestone.

Panda & Sons

You’d miss it if you didn’t know. The barbershop façade, the staircase behind the bookcase, it’s all theatre, but the kind that earns its applause. Once inside, Panda & Sons reveals itself as part Prohibition fantasy, part modern mixology lab. There’s a playfulness in everything, from the waxed moustache signage to the “Transcend” menu, where liquid nitrogen and sub-zero distillation turn the ordinary into the extraordinary.

The Banana Bread Old Fashioned is the headline act, but the Negroni riff, gin, vermouth, and something unnameably wild from the bar’s R&D kitchen, is where the soul of the place lies. It’s witty, a little mad, and entirely self-assured, like the friend who always orders first and never regrets it.

The Witchery

Every city has one place that defies time. In Edinburgh, it’s The Witchery. A restaurant not a bar, but a gothic fever dream on the Royal Mile above all else, so drenched in candlelight and legend you half-expect the ghosts to have reservations. The place is small, the ceilings low, and the sense of theatre immense, velvet drapes, carved oak, gold leaf, and more mirrors than good taste should allow.

The Negroni here is decadence distilled, stirred slow, served in cut crystal, perfumed with a twist of orange and sin. It’s the perfect prelude to a dinner in the Secret Garden room, where vines hang from the skylight and every candle flicker seems choreographed. You sip, and the centuries blur. It’s not nostalgia, it’s possession.

The Lucky Liquor Co.

On Queen Street, the neon glows hot pink against the grey. Inside, the playlist jumps from Bowie to Blondie, and the bartenders grin like they know something you don’t. Lucky Liquor Co. is chaos dressed in charm, checkerboard floors, a bar top that looks like it’s seen things, and a rule that only thirteen core ingredients are allowed behind the bar at any one time.

It sounds limiting, but it’s genius. Every drink, including their rhubarb Negroni, is a small act of rebellion. There’s basil, lime, celery bitters, even chai vermouth, all somehow orbiting that sacred trinity of gin, vermouth, Campari. You sit on a high stool, watch the bottles blur in motion, and feel that particular Edinburgh buzz: part caffeine, part charm, part what-the-hell-comes-next.

Sotto

If Hey Palu is Italian cinema, Sotto is the novel that came before it. The name means “below,” and fittingly, it’s the kind of place that feels like a cellar of good secrets. There’s wine stacked to the rafters, two hundred bottles deep, and a hum of conversation that could only belong to a bar that knows its worth.

They call themselves an enoteca e trattoria, but that undersells it. Sotto is warm light and warm people, the clink of glass against marble, and the kind of service that makes you believe in hospitality again. The Negroni here is as it should be, equal parts and ice-cold, but order it alongside a plate of anchovies or fried artichokes and you’ll understand why Italians linger. This is where time slows down and small talk turns into philosophy.

Bramble

To find Bramble, you descend, past the tailor’s shop on Queen Street, down into the half-light. It’s one of those bars that make you question whether you’ve stepped into a secret club or a time warp. Since 2006, it’s been quietly running the show: a dim, soul-soundtracked space that’s birthed more cocktail converts than any other in the city.

Their Negroni isn’t on the menu, you just ask. It arrives dark and muscular, served over a block of ice the size of your regret. Around you, the chatter rolls low and warm, and the bartenders move with the unhurried confidence of people who’ve mastered their craft. Bramble is a love letter to the understated, a reminder that sometimes, less really is more, especially when the gin’s good and the bitters bite just right.

Hawksmoor Bar

Grand banking hall bones, marble for days, and a bar team that treats classics like a craft rather than a costume. Edinburgh’s Hawksmoor pours with quiet confidence: a house Negroni that’s bitter, ruby, and impeccably cold; brand riffs that nod to the steakhouse’s British backbone without losing Italian soul. Slide onto a leather stool beneath the cornicing, watch the room glow like an old ledger brought back to life, and let the drink do the talking. Chain in name only, in execution, it’s pure Edinburgh gravitas with a London polish, the kind of place where the glassware clinks like a gavel and you’re happy to be judged.

Skua

Stockbridge’s black-painted, candlelit den where the city’s cleverest drink-makers do low-waste alchemy. House ferments, foraged syrups, and Scottish larder magic show up in spirit-forward builds that hum with intent. Order a Negroni and expect nuance: bitters sharpened by citrus peels reborn as cordial, a lick of smoke from reclaimed botanicals, balance that reads like a chef’s tasting note. Fried chicken and smoked-cheese doughnuts on the side, because decadence loves contrast. Skua is where technique whispers and flavour roars, a bar for people who like to read the footnotes as much as the headline.

The Spence at Gleneagles Townhouse

Cathedral ceilings, a circular altar of a bar, and service so polished you can see your future in it. The Spence is the city outpost of a grande dame, and it drinks like one: Champagne carts by day, cut-crystal martinis by night, and a Negroni that lands with velvet authority. Sit at the horseshoe, talk to the bartenders who actually listen, and watch the old banking hall glow as if money still slept here. Luxe without the sneer, modern without the mania, it’s where Edinburgh’s sense of occasion meets a perfect stir.

Joao’s Place

Eleventh floor, W Edinburgh, and a speakeasy disguised as a studio apartment with the best skyline view in town. Brazilian-Japanese lean, vinyl warmth, and a host’s welcome that feels conspiratorial. The menu’s clever, cachaça meets umeshu, rum flirts with sherry and orgeat, but the Negroni sits at the centre like a fixed star: restrained, bitter, city-lit. Order one, then wander into the weirder set (Brazilian Bambo, Fogcutter) and let the night turn cinematic against the glass.

The Last Word Cocktail Saloon

Candlelit, sheepskin-draped, and warmed by a fireplace, the kind of bar that turns strangers into soft-voiced confidants. The Last Word favours classics and their sly cousins; cheese and charcuterie from next door if you know what’s good for you. Their Negroni is slow and serious, stirred like a promise; the rest of the list leans inventive without losing its manners. Come here for dates, reconciliations, and the long talk you’ve been avoiding. The lights forgive. So does the drink.

Nauticus

Leith’s love letter to Scotland, housed in a former bank and stocked with homegrown spirits. The room’s old-world maritime, tiles, brass, history, but the drinks are now: whisky, gin, and beer from the neighbourhood outward. Sundays mean a morning Bloody Mary that could raise the dead; any night means a Scottish-spirited Negroni that’s equal parts thrift and splendour, bitter and brave. If the toastie hatch is open, count yourself lucky. Nauticus feels like a local you wish was yours.

Under the Stairs

Down the stone steps off Merchant Street into a cave of fairy lights, art, and soft voices. The bar’s a trove; the menu lists a classic Negroni and a white-apple variant that swaps in Luxardo Bitter Bianco, gin, and apple liqueur for a crisp, luminous twist. This is where Edinburgh hides on rainy nights: tables candle-stained, conversation easy, the air smelling faintly of citrus and history. Order something peculiar, or order nothing but another round.

The Devil’s Advocate

Down an Old Town close into a Victorian pump house reborn as a whisky chapel with 300-plus bottles staring you down. The cocktail list shows its range, a Smoked Plum Boulevardier if you want the Negroni’s bourbon cousin, or a textbook stir if you don’t. Rough beams, brick, candlelight; upstairs the mezzanine feeds you venison and scallops like a benediction. It’s industrial romance, and the bartenders know their malts like priests know sins.

Heads & Tales

Sharing walls with Edinburgh Gin Distillery, this Rutland Place hideout smells faintly of juniper and intent. Alcoves, low light, and a menu that treats gin like a dialect with infinite words for “good.” The classic Negroni is clarity itself; the twists show range without gimmick. You can watch the stills if you like, but the real show is at the bar: shakers with manners, glassware that sings, and a team that balances scholarship with swagger.

The Bon Vivant

Polished marble, wooden warmth, and a backbar that could start an argument about what to order first. The Bon Vivant is quietly opulent: Champagne one minute, charcuterie the next, a Negroni that arrives dark and exact, more silk than steel. It’s the sort of room where a night stretches, one glass turns two, snacks become supper, and you realise decadence can be gentle if you pace it.

Dragonfly

Old Town stalwart with early-2000s cocktail DNA and a loyal crowd that never left. Park at the bar and let the puns land, Put Your Honey Where Your Mouth Is, Fennelope Cruz, cheeky names, serious builds. If you’re here for the bitter red, their Negroni is straight and sure; if you’re restless, they’ll steer you into spice, herb, and surprise without spilling a drop. Still buzzy, still fun, still knows exactly who it is.

Nightcap

Low-lit New Town burrow for end-of-evening mischief. The room is intimate, the list playful, altered classics, signatures with a sweet tooth (Cloud 17 if you must). Ask for a Negroni and they’ll deliver something handsome and unfussy; linger and the bar softens around you like good jazz. Salted pretzels, fried giant corn, and the kind of hospitality that lets you be exactly the kind of night person you are.

Angels Share

Just off Princes Street: hotel bar gloss done right, with chandeliers, leather, and a whisky selection that could bankrupt a weekend. Cocktails skew crowd-pleasing, cherry and black rum for “The Bonnie Banks”, but the Negroni holds its own, bitter line unbroken beneath the glamour. Come for the room, stay for the pour; this is Edinburgh doing showtime without losing the plot.

Lady Libertine

Art Deco bones on St Andrew Square, with an aperitivo bar upstairs and a sleek basement below, two moods, same elegance. White Negronis and chilli Lemon Drops share space with seasonal fruit-forward builds; everything tastes like it had a fitting before service. Nab a window table for the people-watching, then drop downstairs when the night needs to deepen. A bar that dresses well and drinks better.

Lochrin

Fountainbridge rooftop with heaters, city views, and a trophy shelf (Molinari Hotel Bar of the Year 2024). The cocktail list leans confident: brace of Negronis, a One O’Clock Gun Martini with a snap, a chilli-licked Lafayette for heat. Live music and classic film nights add theatre; small plates keep the bitterness singing. Order the house Negroni, let the wind tug your sleeve, and look out over a city that still knows how to glow.

The Raging Bull

Maximalist fun with a serious shaker arm. Espresso martinis in a dozen costumes made the fame, but the “illegal Negroni” and spicy peach margarita prove there’s bite beneath the neon. Bold wallpaper, louder playlists, and cocktail classes if you want to learn the trick behind the show. Ask for a straight Negroni and they’ll pour it proud, sometimes the best rebellion is doing the classic right in a room that refuses to be quiet.

One Final Pour…..

Prestonfield

And then there’s Prestonfield. Only a mile outside the centre, but it feels like another world, a baroque manor from the 1600s, standing proud in twenty acres of green, its windows glowing amber in the mist. You arrive by cab, or by faith, or if you’re feeling truly absurd, by helicopter, the hotel helipad is waiting.

I’ll freely admit Prestonfield is my go-to sanctuary, as well covered HERE. But they earn their spot on this list on the strength of their Negroni alone.

Step inside, past the welcoming door staff and concierge in black kilts, it’s pure theatre. Velvet, gilt, mahogany, and the faint scent of old books, Diptyque candles and rhubarb, the latter from Rhubarb, the hotel’s restaurant, named for the same fruit the land once grew for royalty. James Thomson, the man behind The Witchery, restored Prestonfield with the zeal of someone rescuing a lost opera. Every inch gleams. Every corner whispers. It’s no wonder Tatler called it “so extravagant it’s like walking onto the set of a costume drama.”

The various lounges and bars are a sanctuary of its own: deep chairs, low light, and a barman who knows before you do that you want a Negroni. It arrives perfectly chilled, glass frosted, orange twist perched like punctuation. The first sip is revelation, gin sharp as conversation, Campari bitter as memory, vermouth rich as velvet. There are other cocktails on the list, of course, and a cellar to make Bacchus blush, but the Negroni is the soul of the place. It’s what ties Prestonfield to every other bar in this story, from rooftops to underground speakeasies, that same scarlet signature looping through continents and conversations.

Stay a while, and the city outside fades. The laughter from dinner echoes faintly through the corridors. You could be in 1687 or 2025; it hardly matters. What matters is the glass in your hand, the warmth in your chest, and the knowledge that for all the world’s noise, there are still places like this, untethered, timeless, alive.Thirsty for more Negronis?